Inevitable
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. AU. Twoshot with an out of order prologue. My response to the prompt for Day Seven of Chair Week. Strip away the wealth and the power and still they will remain because "We're inevitable, Waldorf."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Maybe not what was intended by the prompt for Day Seven of Chair Week – AU history – but I was reminded of some behind the scenes photos of Ed and Leighton filming in front of the Plaza I saw on tumblr by the prompt and couldn't resist. Happy last day of Chair Week, y'all!

* * *

Her hand curls around the black bag slung on her shoulder, holds it in place because she grew up in this city and knows better than to allow easy access to her wallet. Not that her wallet has much in it – an emergency twenty dollar bill, her Metro card, and her real ID nestled behind her fake ID. Her tight, black uniform is stuffed in her bag, ready to be slipped on for another night of cocktail waitressing for stock brokers and other Wall Street types who will hit on her without fail and think they still have a shot even after they leave her less than ten percent in tips.

She had planned to quit at the end of July, planned to spend the last two weeks of her summer vacation with her boyfriend before heading to Yale. But now she's looking at making the trip from the Village even after the semester starts because there is no sense giving up a paying job now that she's not leaving the city. Her mother had socked away as much as she could, picked up side jobs in addition to her full-time job as a seamstress in the Garment District to help pay for her college education.

Even so, a substantial gap between what is covered by the savings and the scholarships and loans she was offer and what NYU charges per semester exists. The money has to come from somewhere, and giving up some of her weeknights and most of her weekends to work at the cocktail lounge seems like the only option. And no sense quitting now that neither of those two caveats of her original plan had worked out – Yale rejected her back in March and the boy she wanted as her boyfriend rejected her just last week.

The memories of Mike Lane's graduation party filter through her head as she pauses at the corner of the next major intersection. The music had been so loud and the cheap beer courtesy of Mike's older brother flowed so freely, but it hadn't been enough the dull the pain of his rejection.

She had been content to spend the night dancing with her best friend, to ignore her hand being squeezed in encouragement and the confident smiles thrown her way by the blonde. But then someone on the yearbook staff anonymously labeled her as a weak-willed person when they stripped her of the descriptor assigned to her by her classmates in a cruel prank. She had been left with no choice but to face what she been trying to do since their graduation ceremony that morning, to march up to him and acknowledge what she had been denying for so long.

She cornered him in Mike Lanes' messy bedroom, sat him down on a broken futon, and confessed that her love for him consumes her. She begged him to say the words he had freely spoken to both her ex-boyfriend and her best friend to her. And he had refused, told her that everything they had done to one another meant nothing because –

She closes her eyes, commands herself to stop thinking about that night. She had wanted to die and maybe a part of her did, but she has more important things to do with her life than mourn the loss of him. Like practicing her pretending to be interested face so she can up her tips for the night and finally purchase that laptop she'll need for college.

She rounds the corner, turns down one of her favorite streets in the city. It's the long way to walk to work, but something about the grandeur of the Plaza Hotel always manages to cheer her up. Her mother had taken her once when she was younger. They weren't guests; they couldn't afford even a single night's stay on the lowest floor. But that day they had ridden the elevator to the top floor so her mother could correct a dress construction error for the owner of the fashion house she works for. The dress had been beautiful, but she had been charmed by the classic opulence of the hotel itself.

Sometimes she likes to slip inside, pretend that she is one of the guests of such a famous hotel. But she really doesn't have the time today, and besides she could hardly be expected to fit in dressed in a pair of jeans, a gray t-shirt, a black cardigan, and scuffed brown boots. Even the light blue scarf around her neck looks cheap compared to those worn by the women walking along Fifth Avenue, shopping bags and designer purses in hands.

She knows all the names and all the labels by heart and can rattle them off on command because even she can afford the latest issue of _Vogue_. She sweeps her eyes from the woman in the Burberry coat walking past her to the street running concurrent to the front doors of the Plaza, nearly stumbles over her feet when she sees him leaning against a stretched limo with his booted feet crossed at the ankles and his hands jammed in the pockets of his worn, black leather coat. She slows, stops in front of him because she is hopeful and intrigued and ultimately foolish.

"Why aren't you out of town?"

The question is bitten out, tossed in his face as a reminder of all those times he went on and on about getting the hell out of town and crisscrossing the county. He moves away from the car, moves to stand in front of her.

"I made it to the Lincoln Tunnel," he offers with a shrug. His hands are still jammed in his pockets, and he's standing at least two feet away from her as people bustle past them on the busy sidewalk. "My new employer only lets me go as far as Union City."

"Your employer?"

He jerks his head towards the limo parked next to them, kicks the tire of the limo next to them with his worn boots as he pauses with adverted eyes. He sweeps his eyes back up to her, waits for her to recognize that he has gone into the family business and taken over his old man's job as a chauffeur for the rich and pretentious. It's on a trial basis. Joe wasn't too keen on hiring him after he got fired from his job as a bouncer at Victrola, but his dad had some sway amongst the drivers and he used to that to his advantage.

"So you're picking up a client then?"

She nods her head in understanding, looks to the Plaza and then back at him. And yet something is out of place because he should be wearing a suit and one of those ridiculous caps instead of jeans and a leather jacket.

"You were right, you know?" He informs her, and she adverts her gaze to the ground because she's not sure she wants to hear the words coming out of his mouth. "I was a coward running away again. Everywhere I went, you caught up with me. I had to come back."

She refuses to look at him, desperately tries to squash the elation running through her veins because she isn't a fool. Because she believed him once before and paid for it when he stood her up for the spring formal, left her to attend "A Night in Tuscany" alone.

"I wanna believe you," she replies with a shake of her head. She lifts her head, narrows her eyes at him as the words leave her mouth with barely masked emotion. "But I can't. You've hurt me too many times."

"You can believe me this time."

"Oh," she replies on the exhale of a breath. Maybe it is enough; maybe it isn't. "That's it?"

And then he pauses, offers her to slightest hint of a smile before the words she has waited to hear for over a year slip past his lips. They are firm, solid, without the slightest hint of hesitation.

"I love you, too."

The breath leaves her body, leaves her gasping for air as the words fill her ears and roar in her head. She moves quickly, throws her arms around his neck as she captures his lips with hers. He turns them, spins them in place as their mouths mold together and the fire roars between them.

This time is different, though. This is not the desperation of the past, but rather tenderness over a firm understanding that what exists between them is real and has a name – love. She breaks away from him, leaves him grinning and smiling wider than he previously thought possible.

"But can you say it twice?"

He laughs and so does she, smiling at the way she teases him. They kiss again – twice more before she pulls away and informs that she is serious, commands him to say it twice.

"I love you," he says with a kiss. "I love you. That's three. I love you. Four. I love you."

She giggles and laughs as he punctuates each of his declarations with a kiss. His lips against hers, his lips against her jaw, and then his lips against that spot against her neck only he has been able to find.

"We should celebrate," he whispers against her skin.

She nods her head in agreement as her body vibrates against his in happiness. A wicked grin settles on his face; she can feel it forming as he presses his face against her neck. And her eyes roll in the back of her head at his words, at the reminder his next words carry.

"I have the limo."


	2. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Four months ago, I wrote this little oneshot for the very first Chair Week based on these behind the scenes photos of Ed and Leighton. Last night, I found my original draft of the story on my external hard driven hidden amongst old classwork. It (kind of) works as a prologue to the story I ended up posting and while I hate posting out of order, I was encouraged to so...Enjoy!

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The music pounds against her sense, plays so loudly that she wonders why the cops haven't been called to break up the party. Her best friend squeals as the song changes; bumps and grinds up against her as the beat pulses louder and louder in her head. The room smells of cheap beer courtesy of Nate's older cousin, and a graduate of P.S. 308 is trying to complete a keg stand without losing his mortarboard in the process.

She rolls her eyes in disgust just as Serena grabs her, pulls her close, and whispers in her ear. She can barely understand her over the music, but the name spoken to her is like ice water to her face and everything freezes when she spies him hovering on the stairs leading into Max Lane's basement.

She turns away, focuses on the way her former classmates are moving to the music. But her best friend has stopped mid-dance, and she has no choice to but face what she has been trying to do since their graduation ceremony this morning. Serena squeezes her hand for encouragement and gives her a confident smile as she tries to urge the brunette to go talk to him.

It's easy for beautiful, sunshiny Serena, she scoffs. Men just fall at her feet and proclaim their love to her.

But she knows that if she doesn't say it now, she'll live with this regret forever. She is not a coward, not the weak-willed person someone on the yearbook staff anonymously labeled her as when they stripped her of the descriptor assigned to her by her classmates for their a cruel prank. The only minor consolation to the scandal had been that the same person labeled Serena as unimportant, although standing in the middle of the Lanes' basement she knows as much as anyone her that simply isn't true.

Her eyes sweep across the room, scanning for any sign of him. She spies him standing over by the Lane's ratty, old couch, watches as a red Solo cup is thrust into his hands. He seems almost grateful for the drink as he drowns it in a single gulp. It is only when he begins to push past their former classmates and head towards the keg in the corner that she begins to do the same. They met before he can fill his cup, and she speaks first before he can greet her with an uninterested smirk.

"I need to talk to you," she informs him with a twinge of anxiousness in her words.

His face is blank as the words are lost in the music, and he raises his hand almost as if to ask her to repeat her words. With a sigh, she motions for him to follow her. He leaves the cup on the sticky table, steps around the puddle of spilled beer on the cracked concrete floor of the basement, and wordlessly follows her through the mass of people to a quieter place than this.

Somewhere along the way, his hand brushes against hers and their fingers entwine until they are holding hands as she leads him to the unlocked storage room in back. Serena had told her about this place, pointed it out almost as soon as they had arrived. She didn't want to know what Serena was doing to know the layout of Max Lane's basement, but for now she is thankful for the knowledge that her best friend's exploits have afforded her.

"I wanna talk," she informs him as she pushes open the door. His head ever so slightly dips so that his mouth is level with her ear, and she shivers ever so slightly when he hotly speaks the words into her ear.

"I prefer to talk after."

Together, they step into the unfinished room lit by a single, bare light bulb in the ceiling. Surrounded by boxes and yet eerily cut off from the noise of the party raging just on the other side of the door, she leads him towards the broken futon stored in the room. There is no telling what – or, who – has been done on this futon, and she tries not to think about it as he sinks down and watches her expectantly.

"What do you think about my sweater?"

He raises an eyebrow at her, sweeps his eyes over the black cardigan she is wearing. He replies that he likes it, asks her why since the question makes no sense to him. She peels it off, lets the cotton fabric slide off her shoulders and fall to the floor.

"And now?"

"Even better."

"And," she asks as she pulls her headband from her hair, "what about my headband?"

"I," he begins as he leans forward on the futon, "admire it."

She lifts her left leg, places her shoe on the futon beside him, and strokes the inside of her thigh. His hand reaches out to follow hers, strokes softly as he expressing his adoration. He watches her next move, shows no betrayal of emotion as she reaches behind her and tugs down the zipper of the dress her mother made her for graduation. The dress falls and puddles at her feet, leaving her clad in her nicest bra and panties from Victoria's Secret.

"I worship it," he informs her as his hands slide to her hips and hers slide to his shoulders and then to his face. She leans forward, hoovers just above him as though she is going to kiss him.

"How do you feel about me?"

She strokes his cheek and chin softly, tries to entice him to speak, and watches with baited breath as he gapes his mouth like a fish. Open. Close. Open. Close.

"Say it."

"I –"

The door to the room is pushed open, interrupting their private moment as another couple comes stumbling into the room. He looks almost grateful in that moment and rather than yelling at the couple to leave, he slides out from under her and heads towards the door. She yanks up her dress, jamming her arms through the sleeves as she tries to follow him out the door.

She yells after him, calls out his name as she tries to catch him before he can blend back into the masses. He shakes her off, heads up the stairs with her hot on his heels. She manages to corner him at the top of the stairs, manages to prevent his smooth exit by slipping her body in front of his just before he reaches the door.

"Leave me alone," he hisses in her face. She shakes her head, advances on him until his back becomes pressed against the laminate wood paneling lining the staircase. The music is loud but not loud enough the cover the roar of her frantic heartbeat in her ears.

"We're just doing what we always do. Finding excuses," she informs him. Her voice is laced with tears, with raw emotion to carries over the music and straight to his ears. "Well, I won't do it anymore."

She appraises him with her eyes, flicks them up and down until he shifts uncomfortably against the wall.

"I know you told Serena you love me."

He tells her that Serena heard wrong, denies that he ever told the blonde what he was feeling. He tries to move past her, tries to exit, but the force of her hand against his shoulder prevents him from going any further.

"Last year, you told Nate. This year, you told Serena. You tell everyone but me. Why can't you tell me?" She asks as she raises her hand and places it against his cheek. "Is the yearbook staff right about you being a coward?"

"That's not true," he snaps, ripping her hand away from his face. "And you know it!"

"The yearbook staff can be right about you all they want, but I won't let them be right about me. I will not be weak anymore."

Her firm voice softens, beckons to him gently as her hand is placed against his cheek once more. And then she cups his face between her hands and forces him to listen to her.

"You can't run. You have to stay here and hear it this time," she informs him. "Chuck Bass, I love you. I love you so much it consumes me. I love you. And I know you love me too."

She waits for a moment, pauses in order to give him the chance to repeat the words back to her. In that brief pause, though, he says nothing and the fear within her wells up.

"Tell me you love me," she implores. "That everything we've done – all the gossip and the lies and the hurt – will have been for something. Tell me it was for something."

He licks his lips, tugs her hands away from his face. Her chin quivers, and she desperately tries to swallow back the sob threatening to escape.

"Maybe it was," he replies before pausing, "but it's not anymore."

He slips past her, opens and shuts the door she had been blocking without any interference on her part. And why would she? The blood flowing through her veins has turned to ice; no longer pumped by something other than a broken heart.


End file.
